


Saplings and Colts

by FalconFate



Series: Tales of the Horseman [2]
Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Horses, Pre-Canon, This is a first, obviously just look at the series it’s in, oh my god tornac the human’s here, young Murtagh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25892368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconFate/pseuds/FalconFate
Summary: Long before Saphira’s egg hatched, long before war began darkening Alagaësia’s horizons in earnest, there was a boy, a horse, and a teacher.This is their story.
Series: Tales of the Horseman [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1864219
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	Saplings and Colts

Murtagh was six, and he wanted his mother.

No matter how many times the governess of the day tried to tell him that his mother was dead, no matter the many trussed-up ladies in gaudy gowns who tried to buy his affection with sweets and false words, no matter his own horrible nightmares and memories of watching his mother fade away before his eyes, he wanted his mother. Her touch, her smile, her voice, _anything_ would do.

Instead, he was forced into tight, itchy, starch-stiff clothes and made to listen to a horribly dull man recite the history of Galbatorix’s Alagaësia, or a times-table, or the meanings of simple words that Murtagh _knew already._ And he couldn’t leave, or read a book, or stare out the window for very long, but he couldn’t _focus,_ either, and his thoughts always drifted to how miserable he was, and how he’d be far less miserable if his mother was teaching him these things like she’d started to, and then remembering that she would never teach him anything again, and he would begin to cry, and he’d be scolded for it—

_—and sometimes the governess’s switch would crack across his back and he was three years old again, bleeding out at his father’s feet—_

He wanted his mother, badly, but she was gone. Who was left? Only Murtagh, and his own misery.

Every morning, it was the same. He was woken, fed, and dressed by a different governess than the day before, bustled out of his rooms and into the stuffy little classroom, and kept there until evening, when he would be bustled right back into his rooms and into bed. Some days, instead of the classroom, he was bustled into a state gala, where lords and ladies who knew his father told him how much he looked like him, and every time, without fail, Murtagh’s throat closed up and his chest became tight and the governess ended up carrying him away before he could pass out or lose his breakfast on the hem of a lady’s skirt… usually.

The governesses who didn’t whisk him away in time were never heard from again.

But this morning, Murtagh woke early.

He didn’t know who would be coming to wake him, but he was out of bed and dressing himself long before they would be coming. His window overlooked one of the palace gardens, only a floor above the courtyard, and an enormous wisteria, in full bloom, had wound its branches around the frame of the window.

His idea was a terrible one, but better than boredom or panic.

With no small amount of trepidation, Murtagh cautiously pulled himself onto the sill, and slowly began to shimmy down the wall, clinging tightly to the wisteria branches. Their sweet perfume, normally pleasant enough from inside his room, was thick and pungent and made his nose itch, and several times he stopped, hands occupied, to desperately rub his nose against his shoulder, trying not to sneeze.

When his feet finally reached solid ground, he collapsed onto the grass, a little disbelieving at what he’d done. He did think his mother would be proud of him, at least.

With that thought, he pushed himself to his feet again, and darted out of the sun, into the nearest corridor. It struck him, then, that he didn’t really have a plan—he could maybe find his way out of the palace proper, but then where would he go? He probably wouldn’t even be able to leave the inner city, much less get past the gates and out of Urü’baen…

This was a terrible plan.

But he’d already climbed out of the window, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to climb back in.

So he wound his way through the palace halls, finding one of the outermost walls and following it, certain he’d find a door to the outside eventually. He found himself in what must have been a servant’s corridor—no portraits, no tapestries, no plush carpets, just undecorated stone floors and stone walls, and soon the floors were strewn with straw. He could smell dust, but beyond the dust he could smell sweet hay, and sweat, and something he could only describe as life…

…the same smell that had clung to his mother when she would return from her journeys, dropping from her saddle to meet Murtagh as he ran straight into her waiting arms. The same smell would drape across her shoulders and follow her like a wedding train, while she showed Murtagh how to check a horse’s legs for injury, how to hold a brush and flick it across a horse’s flank just so.

Murtagh slowed as he neared a door leading out of the palace, where light fell in a warm beam onto the straw-strewn floors, where the perfume of his few happy memories was the strongest. He crept to the edge of the doorframe, and took a deep, shaky breath, trying to steady himself.

He could hardly bear to peek around the corner, but he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving without at least a glimpse—so he edged closer, closer, peered around the corner into the brilliant golden light…

And what he saw was _beautiful._

Late morning sunlight fell from skylights high in the ceiling in golden slats upon the floor, surprisingly well-swept compared to the adjacent corridor. They illuminated a long aisle lined on either side with wide, airy stalls, and in those stalls were the most beautiful horses Murtagh had ever seen: blacks and bays, mostly, but also chestnuts, and grays, and roans, all quiet and peaceful in their own little worlds.

One of them, a gray in a very spacious stall, noticed him. Its ears came to attention, and it gave a cheerful whicker.

Immediately, the whole aisle came to a very noisy life; heads stuck themselves over stall doors, whinnies echoed from stalls Murtagh couldn’t even see from so far away, a few hooves even began kicking impatiently at wooden boards. He gaped at the gray in betrayal, who only watched him intently, ears pricked.

Footsteps echoing through the corridor caught his attention; he faintly heard someone complaining about _these damn horses, they call for breakfast earlier every day!_

Murtagh’s heart leapt into his mouth, and he ducked into the aisle, searching for a hiding place—a hay bale, a broom closet, _something!_ But there was nothing except a turned over bucket that was certainly not big enough to hide him…

…but just tall enough that, in his panic, he was able to pull himself over the door of the gray’s stall and drop into the shavings with little more than a quiet _“Oof!”_

“You hear that, Nackers?”

“Hmm?”

“Sounded like a voice, I tell ya.” The two voices were accompanied by confident footsteps, sure and true in their pattern. Murtagh scrambled to the aisle wall, keeping low and pressing himself against the wooden slats, holding his breath so as not to make another sound.

“Mel, horses make strange noises all the time. I ever tell you about the time a horse sang a duet with me?”

“What was the song? A rendition of dying cats accompanied by steel poles scraping against each other?” teased the first voice. The footsteps sped past Murtagh’s hiding spot, carrying the voices with them, already beginning to fade. He didn’t hear the other man’s response, but their laughter drifted back to him.

Relieved to be so far undiscovered, Murtagh slumped against the wall of the stall, releasing a breath he had forgotten he’d been holding. A long-whiskered gray nose appeared in front of his face, reminding him with a start that he wasn’t alone in the stall.

The gray mare—he could see now that it was a mare—eyed him curiously for a moment, and nosed his hairline inquisitvely. Her whiskers tickled, and he had to stifle a giggle under one hand. She nosed his ear, then his shoulder, before she lost interest and turned her attention to more important matters: notably, the remains of what must have been a pile of hay in the corner next to Murtagh. Now there was little more than a light layer of dry stalks, but the gray was expertly lipping at them, picking them up without even a speck of her bedding.

“You’re very clever, aren’t you?” Murtagh whispered, reaching out a hand. She didn’t shy away from him. In fact, she hardly acknowledged him at all beyond the flick of an ear. Tentatively, he let his hand rest on her neck, just behind her ear, and gently rubbed his hand in small, hesitant motions. She didn’t seem to mind, so he kept at it for a few minutes.

For the first time that morning, perhaps for the first time since arriving at this horrible, stuffy palace, Murtagh began to relax.

And that, of course, is when the stall door opened, and a man stepped inside with a bucket.

**Author's Note:**

> hahahhahaha so fun fact i have no wifi
> 
> i had to macgyver the words from my laptop to my phone
> 
> fun times
> 
> anyway, hope you enjoyed this story! stay tuned for part two! comments and kudos are, as always, greatly appreciated!


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